(We took a field trip to Bidwell Park during my creative writing class last week and sat by the river. We were supposed to be inspired by nature and describe what we saw, but I got sidetracked. Anyways... voila.)
She says my name and it makes me feel like I'm worth something as she keeps her balance on the bridge, arms outstretched at her sides, a little girl in a grown woman's body.
Each word I say, each phrase I think, drenched in cynicism. I guess this will be a prose? Less rules but we humans expect rules for everything. Classmates asking "well, what am I supposed to write?" Isn't that up to you? People you expect all things handed to you and shame on you for comparing this water to piss, giving the excuse that it's a metaphor, shame on you foolish boy don't you ever look around you? It feels as if this hardly exists anymore, even as I try to listen to the thick gurgling of the river before me putrid voices and whispers creep in from behind me, can't you look around? See that water this free still exists in the world and not all of it lives in plastic bottles and there are leaves caught in the rocks, held captive by the current but do they really feel imprisoned? I know I'd feel more free than ever if a river pinned me, the most beautiful demise, a graceful drowning.
And she sees it all as she sticks her feet in, two earths as eyes watch the ripples expand from her toes and she creates this. She chooses to sit close to me, and we don't have to talk and I admire this.
Stop reading so loud, fool you are hurting my mind. How come I can't hear anything but the sound of my own thoughts she hums and i gladly listen to that but we lose something when we get old and that is the ability to listen to silence contentedly without pollution of air, pollution of thoughts suffocating the paths of our brains and how come I can't write pretty anymore, only ugly but it fits me so does that mean I'm ugly? Because the more filth I write the more beautiful I feel its like I expel those demons I expel whatever it is that gets worked out when someone rubs a knot in my back it is what hurts me but I feel myself force myself keep going. What if I become the character I am creating and what will her demise be? Laying still in this body of pristine water touched only by a curious poet's foot? Why go to college when all I do is write through all my classes and what will I look like when I die? Will I be a discarded tree branch stroked by the fingers of the river ever so slightly, enough to give me chills, the ebb and flow not feeling much like death at all?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
I closed my eyes
Particles of sand, particles of something sting my face and wind whips through my hair the most powerful wind I have ever felt--it sways me, blows straight through me through my veins, my bones. A constant, deafening whoosh inhabits my ears and I can't shake it, can't soften it.
Where is the eye of this storm?
All I know is I can barely open mine, the gusts force them shut and I swear the sand caught on my eyelashes is now mud, caked, encasing my vision. Nature does not want me to see. No matter how furious the wind gets, my feet are cemented like an unfortunate miracle. Maybe it would be better if I could move, get out of this place because this doesn't feel like a saving grace but rather imprisonment. But this is what I wanted, is it not? An internal tornado, the storm of all storms and it sweeps away all I know of myself and there are no trees to cling to, no lamp posts. Its barren out here (in here?) nothing but ground and wind, so where is my substance? And I know I can't flee. So I pry my arms from my sides, hold them straight out, either side of my body, and it feels like the force is blowing my skin right off. My fingers flexed, I extend my arms further further further, maybe I'm trying to produce wings to fly away but I know I can't so I should just try to fly anyways. Fly into the storm because I can't outrun it now. The eye should be here any time and then I'll have a second to breathe, a second to realize that its not even over and you have put yourself here so ride this out as gracefully as you can with the wind pulling you a thousand ways, like being trapped in a strong ocean current, helpless and flailing. The wind tortures me, so strong it almost tickles my ears, but will not lift me. And the scream of it's inhuman power almost sounds like laughter.
Where is the eye of this storm?
All I know is I can barely open mine, the gusts force them shut and I swear the sand caught on my eyelashes is now mud, caked, encasing my vision. Nature does not want me to see. No matter how furious the wind gets, my feet are cemented like an unfortunate miracle. Maybe it would be better if I could move, get out of this place because this doesn't feel like a saving grace but rather imprisonment. But this is what I wanted, is it not? An internal tornado, the storm of all storms and it sweeps away all I know of myself and there are no trees to cling to, no lamp posts. Its barren out here (in here?) nothing but ground and wind, so where is my substance? And I know I can't flee. So I pry my arms from my sides, hold them straight out, either side of my body, and it feels like the force is blowing my skin right off. My fingers flexed, I extend my arms further further further, maybe I'm trying to produce wings to fly away but I know I can't so I should just try to fly anyways. Fly into the storm because I can't outrun it now. The eye should be here any time and then I'll have a second to breathe, a second to realize that its not even over and you have put yourself here so ride this out as gracefully as you can with the wind pulling you a thousand ways, like being trapped in a strong ocean current, helpless and flailing. The wind tortures me, so strong it almost tickles my ears, but will not lift me. And the scream of it's inhuman power almost sounds like laughter.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
I haven't thought of a title to do him justice yet...
Behind the 80 year old ears of the grandfather,
ears that have served him well for decades,
ears that are beginning to fail him,
sit a canyon on each side of his head
amongst hair whiter than the salt
we used to sprinkle on homegrown tomatoes,
eating them like apples, walking barefoot
through their garden.
Watermelons bigger than my skull.
Zucchinis bigger than my legs
of which my grandma would use to make bread
the best you've ever tasted
I ate it for each meal.
Wire-rimmed bifocals fit like puzzle pieces
in the craters alongside his brain
his brain that holds endless stories
about places he's been
people he's beat up
his brain, that is starting to forget
the tall tales he would spitfire to me,
sitting on the lawn, knees green with stains
toes caked with mud from the irrigation canal
once, I went in all the way.
Mud hugged my shoulders and my family lost me.
But I smiled the whole time
it was he who found me,
"Sunuvabitch, here she is!"
And I smiled still, as I got a shower from the garden hose
it angrily spewed water on me like a green snake
the sting of the cold water like venom on my skin
right there on that same lawn
we talked for hours
the natural slur of his words showered me both in
wisdom and spit
"When you came out, you fit right in the palm of my hand."
How I wish my infant eyes were old enough to open
and study him
remember the awed expression on his face
as my little body, my entire being, fit perfectly in his wrinkled palm.
Like a puzzle piece.
ears that have served him well for decades,
ears that are beginning to fail him,
sit a canyon on each side of his head
amongst hair whiter than the salt
we used to sprinkle on homegrown tomatoes,
eating them like apples, walking barefoot
through their garden.
Watermelons bigger than my skull.
Zucchinis bigger than my legs
of which my grandma would use to make bread
the best you've ever tasted
I ate it for each meal.
Wire-rimmed bifocals fit like puzzle pieces
in the craters alongside his brain
his brain that holds endless stories
about places he's been
people he's beat up
his brain, that is starting to forget
the tall tales he would spitfire to me,
sitting on the lawn, knees green with stains
toes caked with mud from the irrigation canal
once, I went in all the way.
Mud hugged my shoulders and my family lost me.
But I smiled the whole time
it was he who found me,
"Sunuvabitch, here she is!"
And I smiled still, as I got a shower from the garden hose
it angrily spewed water on me like a green snake
the sting of the cold water like venom on my skin
right there on that same lawn
we talked for hours
the natural slur of his words showered me both in
wisdom and spit
"When you came out, you fit right in the palm of my hand."
How I wish my infant eyes were old enough to open
and study him
remember the awed expression on his face
as my little body, my entire being, fit perfectly in his wrinkled palm.
Like a puzzle piece.
Ode to Sufjan
I love you because no one else would,
given the circumstances...
2 weeks into our life together, your tail began to fray
and float away
in the small bowl that houses you.
Soon it was a nub.
My poor little fish had lost his dignity
like when a boy drops the pop-fly
or a student fails a test--
drenched in shame.
But I didn't flush you
I nursed you, loved you,
I ask you about your day
and even though you don't ask me,
thats okay. I know you would,
if you could.
Now its growing back, slowly and surely
your stream of graceful indigo
that follows you as you swim
is reappearing
a symbol of not giving up
no matter how small a life,
you are my tiny aquatic triumph.
given the circumstances...
2 weeks into our life together, your tail began to fray
and float away
in the small bowl that houses you.
Soon it was a nub.
My poor little fish had lost his dignity
like when a boy drops the pop-fly
or a student fails a test--
drenched in shame.
But I didn't flush you
I nursed you, loved you,
I ask you about your day
and even though you don't ask me,
thats okay. I know you would,
if you could.
Now its growing back, slowly and surely
your stream of graceful indigo
that follows you as you swim
is reappearing
a symbol of not giving up
no matter how small a life,
you are my tiny aquatic triumph.
Oh, the woes of a college student.
You never told me being a grown up meant feeling tired everywhere I go, carrying anchors on my feet, letting my car drive me instead of my drive it--I am on cruise control, my pinkie barely touching the wheel. Autopilot.
You never told me growing up meant getting a shitty job, one that doesn't care about you as a human being, but rather a human, as long as the work gets done.
You never told me that one could consider themselves lucky if one likes their job. Or that paychecks, a silly little paper, represents other silly little papers (this time, silly little green papers), and that with those representations, crumpled in my pockets, you can trade them for a need, a want... it would be so much better if we just used pebbles.
You never told me the government would take away half of my hard earned silly green papers and you never told me to wear comfortable shoes.
You never told me you must pay to live, and live to pay the bills that accumulate, pinned down with magnets on my refrigerator, as if crucified, a constant reminder: to use this, you must pay for it with your hard work, fatigue, and poor attitude!
You never really told me that I must pay to learn, and that some people can't pay, so some people don't learn.
You never told me to be careful while cooking, because I may burn myself--It was always one of those childhood things, a trial-and-error lesson. "Don't touch that!" "Why?" "You'll see."
You never told me that there were other rules to life other than wait 30 minutes after eating a meal before going swimming and don't talk to strangers. No, there are more rules every day. Don't drive during red lights and don't write checks for money you don't have and don't have a dog, you'll have to pay a fine.
You never told me growing up meant getting a shitty job, one that doesn't care about you as a human being, but rather a human, as long as the work gets done.
You never told me that one could consider themselves lucky if one likes their job. Or that paychecks, a silly little paper, represents other silly little papers (this time, silly little green papers), and that with those representations, crumpled in my pockets, you can trade them for a need, a want... it would be so much better if we just used pebbles.
You never told me the government would take away half of my hard earned silly green papers and you never told me to wear comfortable shoes.
You never told me you must pay to live, and live to pay the bills that accumulate, pinned down with magnets on my refrigerator, as if crucified, a constant reminder: to use this, you must pay for it with your hard work, fatigue, and poor attitude!
You never really told me that I must pay to learn, and that some people can't pay, so some people don't learn.
You never told me to be careful while cooking, because I may burn myself--It was always one of those childhood things, a trial-and-error lesson. "Don't touch that!" "Why?" "You'll see."
You never told me that there were other rules to life other than wait 30 minutes after eating a meal before going swimming and don't talk to strangers. No, there are more rules every day. Don't drive during red lights and don't write checks for money you don't have and don't have a dog, you'll have to pay a fine.
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